The Private Diary of Elizabeth Quatermain
by Lady Norbert
Summary: The start of all the insanity... After the events of the film, Allan Quatermain's daughter works with the League to solve a mystery her father left behind. Rated for later chapters.
1. In The Beginning

**The Private Diary of Elizabeth Quatermain**  
by Lady Norbert

(Warning: It starts off a bit slow.)

_Editor's note: Although Miss Quatermain was in the habit of keeping a personal diary for several years prior to 1899, it was in that year that she first made the acquaintance of the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. Therefore, we have elected only to publish the relevant diary entries from July 1899 onward._

* * *

**12 July 1899**

There was a letter from Father in the post today. It was the first word I've had of him since the new year, which in and of itself is nothing so unusual. He is not in the habit of writing letters. But this particular letter was very strange, even by Allan Quatermain standards._ Dear Elizabeth, _

_You no doubt are aware of the strange and terrible things which are happening throughout Europe. I trust that you are well and safe. I have been asked to help put an end to the destruction, before the world is brought to the brink of war, and I have agreed to the mission. _

_I dare not say where I am to go when I leave Kenya, in case this letter falls into unfriendly hands. But there is something which I need you to remember, in case I never return, and it is this. _

_In the city of lights, where Our Lady cradles the body of her Son, you will find the key. The bent Q can help you locate it. You alone can I entrust with this secret, and should the day come when you learn that I have failed on my mission, you must go and recover the key. You will know what to do when you find it. Godspeed, my daughter. _

_Your father_

I find this cryptic message most unnerving. The city of lights, of course, is Paris; everyone knows that. But Our Lady -- that suggests a place of religious significance, and I have never known the great Allan Quatermain to rely very heavily on faith. Of what key does he speak? What in the world is a bent Q?

Worst of all, I have a lingering suspicion that this will be the last letter I ever receive from my father. Whatever mission he is about to undertake is going to be his last.

* * *

**2 August 1899**

My worst fears are confirmed. Father is dead. I received the following telegram from Prime Minister Salisbury today.

_My dear Miss Quatermain: _

_Today I received communication from some of the residents in Her Majesty's colony in Kenya. It is now my sorrowful duty to inform you of the passing of your father, Allan Quatermain. He was a fine man and his legend will live on after we have all departed this soil. Please accept my sincere condolences. _

_It pains me to burden you with such matters at this difficult time, but as you are no doubt aware, the residence known as Solomon Manor was a gift to your father from His Majesty, the late King William, uncle to our beloved Queen Victoria. Your father, regrettably, left no Will and Testament prior to his death, and as a result, the property and its furnishings are being repossessed by the British Crown. I can give you until the end of the present month to make the needed arrangements for your relocation. _

There followed a list of items which, he says, are part of the manor property and must be left behind once I have vacated the premises. I found the whole letter extremely distasteful.

I cannot say that it particularly startles me to know that Father left no documented Will. As he told me on my last visit, "Africa will never let me die." Undoubtedly he thought he would live forever. I am much aggrieved by the speed with which our government intends to reclaim ownership of my home. It seems most disrespectful to make me rush through the obsequies of proper mourning in order to move to new quarters.

I do not even know where I will go. I have no family left, and no fortune of my own. With few exceptions, everything that the Crown will allow me to take can be packed into four trunks. The household servants are expected to remain until some new aristocrat takes up residence here. I have a few small jewels which were the personal property of my mother, which I suppose I shall have to sell in order to provide my own maid with severance pay.

Heaven help me, why must I be bothered with such trifles at this time? My father has died, and the Prime Minister did not even mention making arrangements to have the body brought to London for proper burial. I do not suppose he simply vanished into thin air!

Allan Quatermain may not have been much of a father, but he was the only one I had, and I loved him as much as he let me. I must retire now to the chapel to pray for his soul.

* * *

**13 August 1899**

A strange meeting with strange persons! Solomon Manor was today visited by the most peculiar assortment of people ever to cross her threshold. These, then, are the current members of something called the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen -- though one is a lady -- and it was alongside these that my father fell in battle. He, too, was a member.

The servants showed them into the blue sitting room and brought tea and biscuits, but I had to dismiss them before my guests would speak of their intentions in coming. There were five, all looking somewhat grave and uncomfortable. They apologized for not finding me sooner; Father, typically, had never mentioned me to any of them, and it was only a chance comment from one of his friends in Kenya that alerted them to the existence of Quatermain's daughter. Once they knew where to find me, however, they had come to London with all due speed and diligence to pay their respects.

"Please," I said, "tell me how my father died. Tell me what happened." I was dressed in black, of course, in proper mourning, but it was awhile before I realized that so were all of my guests. They, too, were grieving for the loss of my father, their comrade in arms, and I could not help but warm to them as I began to realize how much they had respected and liked him.

They told me their odd tale, though I suspect they left out many of the details in order to spare me. His death was honourable. He took a fatal knife wound when he turned his back on his enemy in order to save the life of another. Their mission, to stop the one bent on starting a global war, had succeeded, and they all agreed that they owed a large measure of their success to Father.

When I was in school, I was taught to observe much and say little, so here I will record my observations about my five visitors.

The first to make his name known to me was the legendary Captain Nemo, commander of the _Nautilus_ and onetime terror of the seas. He was dressed in the splendid garments of his native India, though as I have said, all in black. I would put his age near that of my father, to judge by the lines on his bearded face. His manner was extremely formal, with a military crispness, but his tone was warm and sympathetic. I think he and Father probably got on well together.

The lady of the company is Wilhelmina Harker, the celebrated English chemist. We had never been formally introduced, but I know I have seen her before today. She is tall and very graceful, with a soft voice and sharp eyes. Though she was no less cordial than the rest, there is something about her which makes me uneasy. The others call her Mina.

The shy red-haired man was none other than Henry Jekyll, the doctor of renown. I was impressed to meet him, but also very puzzled, for I had heard that he was dead. He has a kindly demeanor, though slightly nervous, and I found myself wondering what purpose he and Mrs. Harker serve in the League of "Extraordinary" Gentlemen.

I have no idea what my next guest looks like, for the man is invisible. Though everything I was ever taught would have me disbelieve it, the fact is that Rodney Skinner is completely transparent. He wore a black suit and black-tinted glasses, and had smeared some form of white cream all over his head and hands in order to be somewhat visible. He is quite irreverent; I honestly believe that if he were introduced to the Queen herself, he would salute her with a merry "Cheers, ducky!" But there is something refreshing and enjoyable about such a cad, so long as nothing disappears from the house during his stay -- he was most open and honest about being, as he said, "a gentleman thief."

The last of my visitors is also the youngest; although I am not precisely certain, I believe we are near the same age. Special agent Thomas Sawyer joined the League shortly after my father did. He hails from the United States, where he is a member of the elite Secret Service. He has a rather uncontrolled mop of blond hair which is always falling in his face, very much unlike the style here in London just now. Agent Sawyer seemed the saddest and most heavily grieved of all the group, which is fitting, since it was while saving his life that my father had taken his mortal wound. He apologized to me personally for that, though I cannot imagine that there is anything requiring forgiveness. I have never met an American before, though I have heard much of their uncouth manners and disregard for propriety. But if all Americans are accurately represented by the one currently under the roof of Solomon Manor, then they must be an amiable breed, for Agent Sawyer is as pleasant as one could wish. He is not so cheeky as Skinner, but neither does he exude the formality of the others.

Tea time was well over before they had finished telling me everything, so I invited them all to supper and to stay for a few days. There are many guest rooms here, and I desire to make good use of the house while I can still claim it as my home. Besides, I wish to know more of my father's companions. They all call me "Miss Elizabeth," all except Skinner, who has given me the less desirable appellation of "Bess." I have decided to tolerate it from him, as I sense he could not be dissuaded even if I tried.

Tomorrow I will speak to my guests of my father's last letter, for I believe that he trusted these people, and they can more likely make sense of the puzzling instructions he sent than I can. Perhaps, too, they can make suggestions as to what the key he mentions unlocks. If it is their wish to go to Paris and attempt to solve the mystery, I will consent to parting with the letter.

* * *

**14 August 1899**

I spent the morning in the garden. A few of the small army of gardeners who are attached to Solomon Manor are in the process of transferring my precious herbs into a system of portable containers for replanting later. It will not break my heart to leave behind the elegant statuary or fine tapestries of the manor, but the herb garden has been my private treasure for years and I will not abandon it to be ruined by someone less educated about its residents. Cataloguing members of the mint family is surely an unusual task to be performing in the midst of the formal mourning period, but the pressures of time allow me no opportunity to dawdle.

It was while I was supervising the gardeners that Captain Nemo came and bade me a good morning. He seemed extremely interested in the project; Nemo is a scientist, after all, and they are known for their insatiable curiosity. It afforded me rare pleasure to be able to describe for him the medicinal properties of peppermint and sage, and he in turn spoke of some of the plants of India used for similar purposes. At half past noon, still trading snippets of our knowledge, we joined the other members of the League for luncheon.

I found Skinner examining one of the golden candelabra on the sideboard in the dining room. "Mr. Skinner," I said in what I hoped was a light, amused tone, "I'm sorry to say that you worry me. If anything should happen to...wander out of the manor, the authorities will be after me, not you."

"Why's that, Bess? I mean, it's yours, isn't it?"

"No, I'm afraid it is not." The company sat down, and I explained, albeit reluctantly. "My father left no Will, and so the Quatermain property has reverted to the Crown. I have until the end of August to -- how did the Prime Minister put it? Ah, yes, 'relocate.'" I turned to Nemo. "That is why the gardeners are potting all of my herbs, as you saw. I refuse to leave them behind, so they must be made ready to travel."

"Where will you go?" asked the breathy voice of Mrs. Harker.

I grimaced. "I regret to say that I have no idea." Composing myself, I continued, "But let us not speak of that now. There is something which I need to confide to you all."

As we ate our meal, I explained to them about the last letter I received from Father and its curious message about the key. "I realize that he wants me to go somewhere in Paris," I concluded, "but beyond that I cannot fathom what he means."

Dr. Jekyll spoke up. "I lived in Paris for several months," he said, "and I think I know what Allan meant about the Lady and her Son. In Notre Dame Cathedral, there is a statue -- a copy of one in Italy -- called _La Pieta_. It shows the Virgin Mary holding the body of Christ after the Crucifixion."

"Fits, doesn't it," mused Agent Sawyer. "Sounds like all we have to do is go check out the statue. But what's a bent Q?"

"Sounds like a bad Quatermain joke -- begging your pardon, Bessie," said Skinner breezily. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

"In any event," I said, "from what you have told me of your time with him, I firmly believe you all had my father's trust, even his admiration. I am quite certain that you are far better fitted than I to go and recover this key of his."

"Don't you want to know what it is?" asked Dr. Jekyll.

I thought about that. "I suppose I do," I admitted. "But as you can see, I've quite a bit on my plate just now."

"That's 'cause you're not eating," Skinner interjected. Mrs. Harker shushed him.

"You can see what a job I have here," I said lightly. "The manor must be shut down, my personal servants dismissed, and of course I have to find a new place to live."

"You are the last of the Quatermains, are you not, Miss Elizabeth?" inquired Captain Nemo, politely.

I nodded. "I don't know whether my father ever told you about Harry -- his son." Four of the faces looked utterly blank, but Agent Sawyer nodded. "If he were alive, the situation would be much changed, as I'm sure my father would have made absolutely certain that the manor went to him."

"What -- if I may ask -- what happened to your brother?" Dr. Jekyll looked puzzled.

"He accompanied Father on a mission, his last mission before he met all of you, and was killed. I don't know many of the details, Father wouldn't speak of it." I started playing with a corner of my napkin. "Father and I...we were not close. Harry was the child of his first wife, while I was the child of his second. He preferred Harry's company. When he died, Father retired to Kenya. I only saw him twice after that. I finished my formal schooling and took up residence here in the manor."

"You never married?" This from Mrs. Harker.

I gave her a very wry smile. "I'm not exactly what you would call a good prospect in the marriage game of London society, Mrs. Harker. I may be the daughter of a national hero, but we have no title, no family fortune. What money we have left from the sale of King Solomon's diamonds is part of the property being reclaimed by the Crown. I don't even have a dowry to offer a bridegroom; I believe the term for what I've become would be baggage."

"You've got your father's sense of humour, at least," said Agent Sawyer.

"And it serves me well, sir," I returned. "Or at least, as well as anything can in such trying times. Now," I said, changing the subject, "is it the intention of the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen to seek out the key of their late member, Allan Quatermain? If you plan to solve his mystery, I will do all I can to help you get started."

"I think you should do more than that," said Captain Nemo firmly. "My friends, it is my feeling that we should not agree to undertake this quest unless Miss Elizabeth Quatermain consents to join us."

I need hardly state how utterly startled I was by his suggestion. Had I had any food in my mouth at that instant, it is likely I would have choked.

"Captain," I managed to say, "you honour me deeply, but --"

"I insist."

"I do not think I would add much to the League's skills," I said. "My father taught me to shoot, but I was always more interested in preserving life than in taking it. My education and talents are somewhat limited in scope. If the crew of the _Nautilus_ has need of someone who can embroider, or make candles, I should be pleased to help. But as an adventurer, I am sadly lacking."

"No, I think Nemo is right," said Skinner. "Besides, it wouldn't feel right setting off on another mission without a Quatermain on board. I vote yes."

"As do I," said Dr. Jekyll. Mrs. Harker seemed to hesitate just slightly, but she too agreed. Agent Sawyer looked extremely thoughtful; then he nodded.

"As you can see, we are in agreement," said Captain Nemo. "We all wish you to join us. And you yourself said you have nowhere to go once you leave the manor, so it will be a beneficial move for us all."

I felt utterly overwhelmed by their kindness, their welcoming. I am fearful of letting them down, however; I pale next to my father, of whom they were all so fond. But with great relief, and not without battling against tears, I accepted their invitation. If nothing else, I can now spend my last days in this house without fear of where to go.

Luncheon being over, I encouraged my guests -- my friends -- to explore the manor as they liked until tea time, while I returned to the garden. I was surprised when Agent Sawyer asked if he could accompany me, and he followed me out into the afternoon warmth.

"So, I said, as we walked the paths among the roses and honeysuckle, "my father told you of Harry?"

"Not much, but yes." He looked slightly embarrassed. "I think he still felt guilty about your brother's death."

"He missed him sadly. I was a poor substitute." I paused, frowning, to pull some dead leaves off of a bush. "I'm not surprised he never told any of you about me."

Then Agent Sawyer said something which quite astonished me. "Maybe he was trying to protect you."

"Protect me? From what?"

"Well -- like Moriarty, for instance. Imagine what kind of trouble he could have caused if he'd known Allan Quatermain had a daughter. He could have held you hostage, or killed you to lure your father into a trap. Any of your father's enemies could have used you against him. Maybe he just wanted you to be safe."

I confess, I have never even entertained that notion. I stared at the agent for a moment, wondering if it could be true. I didn't think he cared that much for me. Now I feel as though I have wronged my father by that belief.

We continued walking in silence until we reached the herbarium, where the gardeners had ceased their labours in order to take their own luncheon. Suddenly, Agent Sawyer turned to me, and I found out why he had wanted to join me in the garden.

"Miss Elizabeth, I owe your father a lot. He taught me how to make the shot that brought down Moriarty. More than that, he saved my life twice during the mission, and the second time it cost him his own."

I started to speak, but he interrupted me. "My point is, I owe him, and I can't repay him. But if I can help you, or protect you, while we're on this adventure, I'll do it. You need anything, you say the word."

I have promised him that I will. I felt a little dazed, and had the uncomfortable sensation that I was blushing. It was absurd of me, of course. It is my father of whom he was fond, not me. Still, I must admit that there is something rather attractive about this Agent Sawyer.


	2. Bon Voyage

**The Private Diary of Elizabeth Quatermain**  
by Lady Norbert

* * *

**19 August 1899**

Life has been a whirlwind of activity in these last few days, as final preparations are made for my departure from Solomon Manor. Those servants who are not expected to remain at the manor to assist the new residents have already been dismissed with severance; after careful consultation of the list of items sent to me by the Prime Minister, I was able to pawn some of those more valuable pieces not considered manor property. Happily, one of the tapestries I was allowed to sell brought in enough money that I have not had to part with my mother's jewels after all.

I expected things to become more difficult after so many servants had left -- there are only seven who are staying to work for whoever occupies the manor after myself -- but I had not counted on Nemo's generosity. He summoned several members of his crew from the _Nautilus_ to come and assist us in the last days, including his personal cook. I am developing something of a taste for Indian cuisine, though many of the dishes are far too spicy for my palate. A few of his men have taken over the details of transplanting my herbs, and have already relocated most of them to the ship. Nemo tells me that the ship is powered largely by the sun, that huge panels absorb energy from the sun's light and store it for use when the _Nautilus_ is submerged, and so has assured me that my plants will have all the sunlight they need to grow. I do not know exactly how this is accomplished, but I am impressed.

With the garden thus tended, I have been able to turn my attention to more domestic matters, chiefly the subject of packing my wardrobe and other personal effects. Most of it is much too dreary to address here, being mainly tasks of cleaning, mending, and storing my garments; dull work, to be sure. There are also several books of Father's which I am removing from the manor library and, out of gratitude for Nemo's kindnesses, contributing to the library of the submarine. These are mostly tomes of history and geography, which may prove useful on future exploits. Nemo has placed two of his men at my personal command, instructing them to assist me however I require, and they have spent much of their time ferrying boxes and trunks from the manor to where the _Nautilus_ awaits us in port. This is made easier on them by the use of a curious contraption which Nemo calls an "automobile," some form of carriage not requiring a horse. It goes dreadfully fast and seems to me to be quite dangerous, though I am told that no harm has come to any of its passengers as yet.

My friends have managed to find various pursuits to keep themselves amused during these last days at the manor. Mrs. Harker spends most of her afternoons in the library, absorbed in one book or another. Dr. Jekyll can sometimes be found there as well, though he and Skinner have made great use of Father's game room, where they entertain themselves by playing billiards, chess, or cards as the mood strikes them. Sometimes Nemo joins them; he has also made a number of trips back to his lady, as he calls the ship, to oversee the various activities of her crew. Agent Sawyer can sometimes be persuaded to join the others in a game of cards as well, but has spent many hours examining the relics in Father's trophy hall.

Speaking of the trophy hall, I am suddenly reminded that there are a few rifles and such stored in there which are not on the Prime Minister's list. They are of little use to me, of course, but I believe at supper tonight, I will invite my friends to take them.

I have amused myself, at odd moments, by continuing to observe my friends and make deductions about their natures. I believe Agent Sawyer is nursing some sort of attraction to Mrs. Harker, as is Dr. Jekyll. For her part, she seems to be neither encouraging nor discouraging either gentleman in his interest; it is my private opinion that she feels nothing for either one except friendship and respect, though I could well be wrong. She is very difficult to read. Nemo, for his part, seems to nurture a love for no lady but his ship, while Skinner, the cad, has been caught in flirtations with more than one of the maidservants.

I expect to have everything finished and ready for departure within the next five days, and do not expect to write again before then. Most probably, I will be aboard the _Nautilus_ the next time I write in this diary.

* * *

**23 August 1899**

As I expected, I am writing from my stateroom aboard Nemo's ship. The _Nautilus_ is ill served by the legends which have spread about her; this vessel is a floating fortress, a sea palace, and I have found it difficult to adequately express my admiration for her. From the outside, the "sword of the ocean" appears an impenetrable citadel, larger than any ship I have ever seen. Yet inside, everything is as magnificent as one might see on any of the great ocean liners. I have yet to encounter anything which is not exceptionally beautiful, and I believe Nemo has been quite gratified by my appreciation for his dream.

My own quarters are actually comprised of three adjacent rooms, not far from those of Mrs. Harker. One room is for sleeping, one for bathing and personal toilet, and the third room -- to my great delight -- has become my herbarium. All of my herbs are arranged neatly, sorted by family, clearly labelled. I have been provided with all the tools of the herbalist's trade -- mortar and pestle, drying racks, ad infinitum. Nemo's generosity borders on extravagance, and I have thanked him profusely many times. He seems almost amused by my thankfulness; perhaps he, like Agent Sawyer, is looking out for me as a means of repaying my father for something.

Tonight we are to stay in port for one last evening, and then tomorrow we set sail for Paris.

* * *

**25 August 1899**

All is not well aboard the _Nautilus_. It would appear there is a traitor in our midst, though their identity remains hidden.

Yesterday morning, I joined the members of the League on the deck of the ship as we sailed out of port. It was a bittersweet moment for me, as I have never known any home but England and I have no idea when I shall see her again. I stood at the rail and watched as London faded into the distance, while my friends, to whom this is not such a new sight, went back inside the ship. The _Nautilus_ simply glides through the water as a knife's blade may slip through butter, almost without sound.

I heard the door behind me open again, and I turned to see who had decided to rejoin me. But I never caught sight of the individual, for the instant I turned, a large piece of fabric -- a cloth sack, I believe -- was rammed over my head and I could see nothing. I screamed as loudly as I could, and my unseen attacker struck me full in the face. As I struggled blindly, I felt arms lifting me.

Suddenly, I was released. There was nothing, no sensation at all except that of air rushing past me. I had been dropped over the guardrail and was hurtling toward the ocean below. I fell, like a stone, into the foam trail generated by the ship and sank. The water closed around me. Panicked, I fought against my cloth prison, and kicked violently to propel myself in a direction I could only pray was up. My heart was hammering, my lungs filled with a stabbing pain as they begged for air.

Exhausted from my labours, I started to relax, ready for the darkness to claim me. But then for the second time, I sensed arms catching me about the waist. Within an instant, I felt myself break through the surface of the water, but I still could not breathe; the soaked fabric clung to my nose and mouth, suffocating me. I heard a ripping sound, and the cloth was torn away from my face. I sucked greedily at the free air, savouring life. Someone kept repeating my name.

How exactly I was fished out of the sea I am not certain. The next several minutes are at best a blur. I registered the faces of the League members as I was brought aboard once again. I have a vague memory of Mrs. Harker, as the only other woman aboard, helping me to remove my waterlogged clothing and dry my person before taking me to the infirmary. She must have dressed me in my nightclothes, for I was wearing them when I next became properly aware of my surroundings.

As best I have been able to understand, Dr. Jekyll has been attending to both myself and Agent Sawyer since the incident. It was the agent who jumped into the water and saved me from drowning. The good doctor has been monitoring us for signs of pneumonia from our time in the icy water, but it would seem that we are both recovered from the incident. No lasting physical harm has come to either of us as a result of the attempt on my life, but now that I am in the sanctity of my own room again, I confess my terror.

Who on this ship could wish me dead? I have yet to meet with anyone who has not been kind or, at the very least, polite. A stowaway aboard Nemo's vessel is unlikely at best, and I cannot believe that one of his men could be responsible. Their loyalty to their captain is absolute; they would rather die than defy him. Not only am I troubled by "who," but also "why." What could possibly be gained from my destruction?

Someone is knocking at my door.

* * *

**later**

My visitor was none other than Agent Sawyer. I was pleased to see him, as I had not had opportunity to thank him for saving my life, and to tell him that whatever debt he owed to my father has surely been repaid by his act of bravery. Then I asked, for I had been wildly curious to know, how he had managed to come to my aid so swiftly following the attack. He said that as soon as he realized I had not come below with the others, he had come back to the deck, and arrived just in time to hear the splash as I hit the water. This worries me, for he saw no one, and yet in so short a space of time he should have been able to see my attacker -- unless the would-be killer jumped into the water too, which I surmise is a possibility.

Agent Sawyer then asked me to accompany him to the main chamber, where the League is in the habit of assembling to take meals and discuss plans. The other members were already there, and I thanked them all for their assistance during the terrible incident. Their faces were grave and troubled; they too had been contemplating who could possibly be responsible for the attack.

I am so tired that I have little desire to record the details of this meeting. But this much was decided -- at Nemo's insistence, Agent Sawyer is now my personal bodyguard, and except for times such as this, he is not to allow me out of his sight for an instant. (I would not be terribly surprised if I were to open my door and discover him sleeping in the hallway outside my quarters. This is hardly necessary, I should think, but he is taking the situation that seriously.) I have also agreed, reluctantly, to bear arms at all times, and will henceforth be carrying a small pistol on my person.

I wonder if he is outside the door.

* * *

**27 August 1899**

We reached Paris this morning, but because of the highly eventful nature of our voyage, Nemo felt it prudent to wait aboard the ship for an extra day before entering the city proper. We are presently docked about one and one-half miles downriver, with the ship submerged to avoid attention. The river is evidently deeper than it looks.

Yesterday held a curious event for me. If there is one member of the League with whom I have not felt entirely comfortable, it is Mrs. Harker. I have not been able to determine precisely why this is, and in all the activity of the past few weeks, I have not truly had much time to contemplate the reasons. In any case, I was surprised when she invited me to her quarters (Agent Sawyer in attendance, of course). Her chambers are nearly identical to my own, except that where I have my herbarium, she has a full chemistry laboratory.

To make what might otherwise be a rather long story short, Mrs. Harker -- no, Mina, for that is what she has asked me to call her -- has offered me an interesting exchange. She will show me some of the basic principles of chemistry if I will teach her some of what I know of the herbalist's lore. I am slightly hesitant to accept the offer; though I am interested to learn what she can show me, and pleased to have this opportunity to improve our acquaintance, I do not expect to be among the League for very long. My usefulness is limited, as I have pointed out to them, and once the current expedition has concluded, I anticipate bidding them all a very fond farewell as they sail off in search of other adventures. How much Mina and I can teach one another in so short a space of time, I cannot fathom.

I must get used to calling her that. The others are starting to insist that I address them less formally as well. I have always done so with Skinner, of course, because of his very nature. I must remember -- Mina, Henry, and Tom, not Mrs. Harker, Dr. Jekyll, and Agent Sawyer.

I must also, at least in the short term, get used to having a shadow. I understand Nemo's purpose in placing me under constant surveillance, as I've no wish to taste the ocean again anytime soon. I can also appreciate his logic in assigning Tom to the task. Nemo is too busy running his ship, and Henry and Mina are engrossed in their respective fields of expertise; Henry is the chief medical officer of the _Nautilus_, and he and Mina have apparently been working (together and separately) to find a cure for Skinner. This most likely requires Skinner's presence more often than not, since I imagine he otherwise would have been a suitable candidate for bodyguard. Tom is the only League member with the time to devote to monitoring my personal safety.

He really is a perfectly acceptable companion, but he takes his duties _very_ seriously. It would seem he has not been sleeping outside my door -- at least, I have found no evidence of this -- but if my attacker is not soon found out he may just take that next step. The seriousness has taken over his demeanour as well. I think I have seen him smile perhaps twice since my attack, both times at Mina. I'm quite convinced that my earlier observation about Tom and Henry was accurate; they are enamoured with the lady, though Henry seems to have the stronger feeling. She is an exceptionally lovely woman, and I cannot fault the attraction by either gentleman.

From Mina, however, I still detect no interest in either of them. She strikes me as one who still bears the scars of a love now lost to her. Possibly she still mourns her departed husband, Jonathan; I am uncertain as to just how long she has been a widow, though she did mention in passing that her husband died "years ago." I find this baffling, for she does not appear old enough for such a proclamation. Neither Henry nor Tom seems the slightest bit discouraged by her lingering grief, nor unwilling to wait until it has passed. Perhaps eventually, she will find it in herself to return the affections of one or the other.


	3. Explosions and Explanations

**The Private Diary of Elizabeth Quatermain**  
by Lady Norbert

* * *

**28 August 1899**

My watchdog was not happy with me this morning. Tom came to collect me for breakfast at the usual hour, but I was unwilling to tear myself away from my work. I'd risen earlier than usual, so I had started work on a fresh set of herbal sachets -- so useful for keeping one's wardrobe and bedding smelling fresh and fragrant. I brought a few from home, of course, but aboard the _Nautilus_, one is sometimes overwhelmed by the smell of the brine, so I felt that newer, stronger sachets were needed. I hate to leave a task unfinished, and as a result, we were so late for the morning meal that we missed it entirely.

It was decided that that Henry, Mina, Tom and I would be the least conspicuous on the streets of Paris, and so we would go alone on the first excursion to Notre Dame. Nemo and Skinner would remain aboard the ship, the idea being that if additional visits were required to find what we sought, they would accompany us later. So we disembarked and the four of us set off for the cathedral, Henry leading the way.

I believe that forever and always, any feat of architecture or engineering will pale beside the _Nautilus_ in my mind. Yet one cannot help but be entranced by the beauty of Notre Dame. A true palace of God, its twin spires reaching for the heavens, the sun caressing the stone facade and gleaming through the elegant rose windows...it is almost pointless to describe it, as nothing I can say will do it proper justice.

People visit Notre Dame every day from all around the world, coming to marvel at its exquisiteness, and so we went unnoticed as we made our way toward the enormous altar where _La Pieta_ awaited us. It is a truly remarkable piece of art, and puts to shame any of the fine statuary at Solomon Manor. The face of the Virgin is beautiful to heartbreak, somehow managing to convey both grief and peace at the same time while she gazes upon her Son's body.

But though we examined every inch of the statue, we could find no indication of a key. There seemed to be no carvings, no hidden panels or anything at all which appeared amiss. Tom even got down on hands and knees to study the base and the surrounding floor, but found nothing. Mina did collect a sampling of dust which had settled on the statue; she intends to analyse it in her laboratory to be certain, but she does not really believe it to be anything more than the dust which gathers anywhere else. We spent a few hours searching the entire altar for possible clues -- loose stones in the floor, suspicious cracks in the woodwork, anything at all. We were utterly defeated; there was nothing.

We debated asking for a conference with the priests in residence, to see if any of them knew anything about either a key or a "bent Q," but instead we decided to return to the ship for luncheon at half past one. Tom and I were particularly hungry, having not yet broken our fast, and Mina wished to start analysis of the dust sample.

Over luncheon we told Nemo and Skinner of what we had found -- or, more accurately, what we did not find. I confess I felt somewhat despaired by it all, as though I have failed my father. When we had concluded our meal, I returned here to my quarters (followed by Tom, as usual) and finished putting this morning's labours into the wardrobe. Tom left me at the door, saying he intended to visit the ship's library, so I have stolen some of these moments of solitude to update this diary on the present situation.

I am awaiting the results of

* * *

**later**

I had to stop writing at that moment because of the dreadful explosive sounds which suddenly echoed in the hallway. Whether my attacker was responsible for the current mishap, I do not know, but I have no cause to suspect anyone else.

I rushed outside and saw a plume of smoke issuing from Mina's chambers, just down the hall. Some of the crew members were shouting to each other in Hindustani, which I do not understand, but I hurried to her door and looked into the room. To my horror, Mina was sprawled, unconscious, across the floor. The laboratory was a mess; several of her glass vials had shattered, and one or two chemicals unknown to me were forming large puddles not far from Mina's body.

The other members of the League came running, and Henry at once pushed into the room to lift her from the floor. "She is breathing," he said, "and her wounds have already healed." This last made no sense to me at the moment. Henry pulled Mina into his arms and stood, quavering just slightly under the light burden. "Let's take her to the infirmary. I think she'll be fine, but we must keep her quiet just in case."

Henry carried Mina, with Skinner and Tom following. She was put into the same bed where I had recovered from my dip in the sea, and has remained motionless ever since -- it has been over three hours now. Nemo and I remained in the hallway; he wished to see if he could learn what had triggered the blast. I returned briefly to my own room, where I retrieved this diary and some of my more pungent herbs. Sometimes, placing sharp-smelling herbs under the nose of an unconscious person can be enough to stir them to sensibility. When the captain was ready, we joined the others here in the infirmary, where he reported that he has no knowledge of what caused the explosion. My herbs have not succeeded in reviving Mina, so we must wait.

* * *

**29 August 1899**

Mina, I am told, awakened in the early hours of this morning. By that time, at Henry's urging, the rest of us had returned to our own quarters to sleep. This time, Tom really did sleep outside my door -- though perhaps I should not say sleep, because I don't believe he did. He was not only guarding me, but also keeping watch to see if Mina's saboteur would return to the scene of the crime. For Henry's part, I know he has not slept either. The circles under his bloodshot eyes are proof that he stayed awake at her bedside all throughout the ordeal.

We only learned of Mina's waking when we assembled for the morning meal. Henry had decided not to disturb any of us, and so kept the news to himself until that time. I know he meant well, but I think the rest of us are all in agreement that we would prefer to have been disturbed, as we were all terribly concerned for her. Breakfast was quickly abandoned in favour of visiting the patient, who at the doctor's insistence was still resting.

I brought her a gift of another of my sachets, one which I stitched just for her last night while waiting for sleep. My own are filled with a combination of rose petals and cinnamon shavings, but Mina's was a piece of burgundy velvet stuffed with dried lavender and sage. I felt quite awkward presenting her with the gift, thinking that it was a foolish gesture on my part, but she smiled and thanked me.

"What happened, Mina?" asked Tom urgently. I suspect he is not pleased that Mina stayed the whole night in Henry's care, and that Henry was the one to greet her when she awoke. The doctor has been highly attentive and solicitous of her, and hides his usual shyness through medicinal busywork -- taking temperature, checking pulse, and so forth -- all of which is arousing jealousy in the younger man. Tom amuses me somewhat in his attempts to conceal the envy, simply because he is so unsuccessful.

"I was analysing the dust," she began, "which it would seem is not ordinary dust after all. It has some sort of explosive properties, not unlike gunpowder, though of a different composition. I have never seen it before and I have no idea what it is. I put some into a glass phial and began to heat it over my flame, and when it reached a certain temperature, it blew up. It was a very small sample that I heated, yet the blast was enormous."

"Do you remember anything about getting hurt? Why were you out for so long?" asked Skinner.

"I suppose it's part of my...nature," she said calmly. "I was struck very hard in the face by something heavy -- I could not see what it was, I only know what I felt. My body more or less shut itself down completely in order to allow me to recover, which I have done. I feel quite well."

"My men have cleaned up your quarters and set everything to rights again," Nemo assured her. "You may return there as soon as the good doctor releases you from his care."

Henry, who looked as though he would prefer to never release her from his care, smiled awkwardly and said she was able to go whenever she was ready. "You've been a rather worrisome patient, Mina," he said lightly, "but then I'm not used to looking after someone like yourself."

She regarded him with a fonder expression than she usually wore. "No, I suppose not, Henry," she said softly. "But I thank you for your pains." Somewhere in the midst of this conversation, Tom left the room. If anyone besides myself noticed, they gave no sign.

Mina returned to her quarters shortly thereafter. Nemo and I accompanied her, and watched as she examined the laboratory, frowning. "Your men did a very meticulous job, Captain," she said. "Too meticulous. There's not a trace of the powder remaining."

"What? That can't be," he said. "I specifically told them to collect all the powder they found and bottle it. I was assured that this was done." We joined her at the table, but she was quite right -- no sign of the powder anywhere.

"Now I don't see how I will ever find out what it was," she said with a sigh, "and it could have destroyed us all."

"My men would not have done this," Nemo muttered. "Someone else has taken the powder, I am quite certain of it." We all looked at each other, bewildered.

"Do you think...could it be the same one who tried to drown me?" I asked hesitantly. "Could that be who took it?"

"I think, Elizabeth," said Nemo heavily, "that is almost certainly the case. Someone wishes to bring harm to us all. The question is, who would do it -- and why?"

* * *

**later**

I left off writing at that point in order to join the others for luncheon. This time it was not Tom who came to escort me, but Skinner. "Tommy's shut himself in the library," he said, smirking. "Don't know what he's doing in there, but he says he's not hungry. Can't imagine why."

"So I'm not the only one who's noticed," I said.

"'Course not, Bess. It's been going on for as long as the League's been together. Even your father knew -- tried to tell Tom she was out of his league, but he doesn't listen to that kind of talk. Not that she hasn't encouraged him in her own way."

"I hadn't noticed her giving him any encouragement."

"Oh, she's sneaky about it, but don't be fooled, she likes him. Of course, she likes Henry, too. Maybe she likes him even more now that she's been his patient. Don't know what she thinks of Hyde, though."

"Skinner." I stopped him in the middle of the hallway. "I need to know something, and I'm too embarrassed to ask the others."

"Name it, love."

"What did Mina mean -- about her nature? And why did Henry say he'd never taken care of anyone like her before? What do you all know about Mina that I don't?"

"Ah." He sighed. "It hasn't really come up, has it? No reason you would know. All right, I'll tell you, but not out here. Come with me." I followed him down a passageway into a small storage room, which was deserted, and he closed the door.

"You should probably sit down for this," he said, indicating a box. When I was seated, he continued, "Mina's...well. I guess I'll just say it. Mina's a vampire."

"A -- what?"

"Vampire. Daughter of the night. Bloodsucking damsel. You've heard of them, haven't you?"

"I didn't think they were real."

"Didn't think invisible men were real, either, did you?" he asked, and I had to concede the point.

"But from what I've heard of vampires, she can't possibly be one," I protested. "She eats regular food. She can walk around in daylight."

"She can also transform herself into a bunch of bats and go flying through the air," he said. "She's not a normal vampire, though. She told me once that as long as she never drinks innocent blood, she'll never turn completely. Until that happens, she can still do things like walk in the sun and eat beef Wellington. So she sticks to evildoers when she gets hungry -- murderers and the like. She's actually able to go for several days without drinking blood, which is good when this tub's underwater."

I must say that I sat there in complete shock. I knew there was something odd about Mina, something I couldn't identify which made me uneasy, but I never would have guessed she was one of the undead.

"I know, love, it's a bit much to take in," he said. "You can imagine how shocked we all were the first time we saw her drink. It takes adjusting, but you'll get used to it. Look how used to me you are."

"Yes, I suppose...what about Hyde? You mentioned someone called Hyde."

He let out a deep breath. "You are a bit out of the loop here, aren't you? All right." For the next several minutes he explained the existence of Mr. Hyde. Mr. Hyde is...Henry. Or rather, he's Henry's alter ego, a brutish, monstrous creature who is not only capable of all sorts of horrors, but _enjoys_ them. Henry had sought to banish the evil which is the curse of all men, starting with himself, but instead he had divided his own essence into two beings, one light and one dark. I had heard of his death because he faked his own suicide in order to flee from London; he was living in Paris, alternating between his two personalities, until he was captured by my father and brought to aid the League. I stared at Skinner throughout the telling of this alarming tale.

"Is there anything else I should know?" I asked finally. "I suppose next you'll tell me my father was a werewolf."

He chuckled. "Nah. Not that I ever heard, anyway."

"Should I be concerned about Hyde?"

"No more than the rest of us. He's better than he was; he and Jeks are almost like a team now. He doesn't kill anymore, not for sport. I know, we're not the usual sort of companions for a young society lass -- a pirate, a vampire, an invisible man and a monster." His tone was unusually serious. Then he laughed. "At least Tom's a normal chap! Except for being an American, of course." With uncharacteristic chivalry, he extended a hand and helped me to my feet. "Come on, Bess, we'll be late for lunch. Everyone will talk about us being alone in a closet, and I'll be forced to confess my undying love for you in front of the entire crew in order to save your reputation." He opened the door and bowed me out, still chuckling.

He was quite right about them being very unusual companions. But they truly mean more to me than any of the giggling girls I knew at school. That is not to say that I'm not still a trifle stunned at Mina and Henry's secrets, but Skinner has a point -- I have accepted him, and I can learn to accept them too.


	4. Terror on the Tower

**The Private Diary of Elizabeth Quatermain**  
by Lady Norbert

* * *

**30 August 1899**

I came to bed a bit late last night, and was too tired to write any further of yesterday's events. It is now morning, and I am in my quarters awaiting the call for breakfast.

It was decided that any further exploration of the cathedral would wait until today, when we all -- meaning the five League members and myself -- will go there together. So after luncheon, I ventured to the library and found Tom muttering to himself over a book of French history.

"I thought I'd come and see if there was anything useful in the history of Notre Dame itself," he said when I joined him. "Haven't found a thing, though."

"A good idea, but not worth skipping meals for," I chided him gently. I thought the conversation might go a bit more easily if we didn't face each other, so I turned my attention to the bookcases as though carefully selecting a volume. Nemo's collection is filled with every kind of book imaginable, from reference works to masterpieces of fine literature.

"Yes, well, I didn't have much of an appetite." His voice was so filled with bitterness that I couldn't help turning to look at him.

"You don't know that you have any reason to be jealous, Tom. None of us can divine what transpired between them last night."

"No, I have a pretty clear idea of what happened," he snapped. "She made her decision. I don't really blame her...he's a good man and a good friend, and he'll devote himself to her. Both sides of him will. I just feel like I got the short end of the stick again."

"Again?"

"Never mind."

"No, please," I said, sitting down beside him. "I mean, if you don't mind telling me...I know so little about you."

He pulled an odd face. He didn't look angry, just hesitant and a bit regretful. "Her name was Becky," he said finally. "Becky Thatcher. I was only a boy when I first saw her, but...well, anyway, she was my girl -- my only girl -- for years."

He went on to tell me how he and his best friend, a boy known by the curious name of Huckleberry Finn, had grown up together and, after Tom had successfully solved a baffling murder mystery, had decided to become agents in the Secret Service together. Tom had been raised by his aunt, now dead; Huck (as he called him) was like the brother Tom had never had. "Huck and Becky would have been enough of a family for me," he said. "Then Huck died -- he was murdered by Moriarty, the same one who killed your father. I went home to Missouri to see him buried proper, and I found out Becky had married someone else." He shook his head. "That was when I left for England to join the League. There's nothing left for me back home anymore."

I felt such a rush of sympathy for him as he told his story. All of twenty years old, and his whole life has been filled with sadness. His family gone, his best friend gone, his childhood sweetheart married to another -- and of course he'd had to endure the loss of my father too.

"For what it's worth," I said softly, "I do understand a bit how you feel."

Tom's head came up so sharply I thought his neck might snap. "How can you?"

"A little over a year ago, I stood as the maid of honour when my best friend got married. Unfortunately for me, her choice of bridegroom was the exact same man I'd hoped to marry myself. To add insult to injury, I later discovered that he'd considered courting me until he found out that marrying Allan Quatermain's daughter and acquiring Allan Quatermain's personal wealth were not the same thing."

He looked faintly angry, and I feared my comparison had offended him. I got up and busied myself at a bookcase again, pretending to search for something to read while I discreetly dried my eyes. At length I selected Walt Whitman's _Leaves of Grass_ and, now composed, sat back down again. I deliberately avoided looking at him, but I heard him when he spoke.

"Well, he didn't deserve you, then."

I smiled, turning pages. "Thank you. I appreciate that." To change the subject, I showed him the book I had chosen. "He's an American poet, isn't he?"

"Oh, yeah. I've never read any of his stuff, but they say he's good."

I let Tom get back to his history studies and continued reading the poetry. Whitman really is quite good; I have heard some controversial things about the poet himself, but as a writer, I cannot fault his genius. One of his poems I liked so well, I read it until I had it memorized so that I could write it here.

_O you whom I often and silently come where you are  
that I may be with you,  
As I walk by your side or sit near,  
or remain in the same room with you,  
Little you know the subtle electric fire  
which for your sake is playing within me._

So short, and yet so eloquent.

I was on perhaps my fifth reading of the poem when Tom made an exclamation, and jumped to his feet. He was staring at the pages of his book with a stunned expression.

"What is it?"

"I think I found your bent Q," he said, all the bitterness chased away by his excitement. "Did you ever hear of a book called _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_?"

I started to answer in the affirmative, and then I, too, realized what he meant. "Quasimodo! The hunchback!"

"There's got to be a copy of it here," he said, and we started searching the shelves frantically. Fortunately, Nemo keeps his library quite well-organised, so it did not take us long to find what we sought.

"It's a big book," Tom noted. "This might take awhile."

So it did. The hours ticked by, unnoticed, as we passed the volume back and forth, taking turns in the reading. It grew so late, in fact, that our friends came looking for us when we did not report for the evening meal. By that time, we had found two likely prospects in the book, two somewhat secret places in the cathedral which might be related to the mystery at hand, and we presented these theories to our companions. One is called the Porte Rouge, said to be a "communication" between the church and cloisters -- by this, I am guessing, it is meant a kind of passageway. The other is a small cell, near the belfry in the tower nearest the river, which was used in the story by the hunchback's foster father as a private chamber. We have all agreed that after breakfast today, we will search the cathedral for these two places to see if we can find the key.

Thank goodness Tom realized that the bent Q was really Quasimodo, and sent us looking in Victor Hugo's book. Otherwise, this entire adventure might have dragged on endlessly. I wish Father had been just a bit more precise in his clues; he should have remembered that I am not the clever hunter he was. But even Nemo, whom I would surmise is the wisest and most learned of all our company, agreed that Father's referral to Quasimodo as "the bent Q" was very bewildering.

I do miss him, however. I miss him more than I could have guessed.

* * *

**later**

This has been a very long and frightening day.

It did not begin that way. On the contrary, after breakfast we left the _Nautilus_ and found ourselves enjoying some truly fine weather. Nemo had originally suggested we travel to the cathedral in his automobile, but as it was such a lovely day, we all decided to walk.

Ahead of me on the street, I saw Henry offer his arm to Mina, and she took it. I am not exactly certain why, but I could not help smiling a little at this. Henry really is a very sweet person, and I can only imagine he has been lonely for a long time; if Mina is starting to return his interest, it most likely could be the best thing for him. I glanced at Tom and was relieved to see that he was composed; either he has grown much better at hiding his jealousy, or he is starting to let go of his own attraction to the lady. I cannot tell which, but I have no wish to see him hurting. He has been hurt too much already.

Skinner afforded me further amusement by offering me his own arm. I have grown dearly fond of all the members of the League, but in his own way, Skinner is dearest to me. There is no romance to my attachment, of course, but I find myself wishing that I'd had a friendship like this with my brother Harry when he was alive. Of them all, Skinner is the one around whom I feel most at ease, which I suppose is why I permit certain slight breaches of etiquette on his part. I've even come to not mind being called Bess, though I don't mean to encourage it in any of the others.

"Don't know what you've done to the boy," he said quietly.

"And I don't know what you're talking about," I replied.

"Come off it. Yesterday he was greener than the lawns at Kensington Palace. Today he's as cool and collected as I've ever seen him. You did something."

"I've done nothing at all. We just talked."

"Whatever you call it, I'd say you've got the Quatermain touch."

I believe that may be the nicest compliment I have ever received.

We reached the cathedral and, in complete opposition to our decision of earlier in the week, began trying to find someone whom we could question about Notre Dame. I know very little French -- I read it more accurately than I speak it, but my attempts at conversation would only provoke laughter from a native. Nevertheless, I was appointed to find someone who spoke English and query them about our intentions, while the others resumed their search at and near the altar. At length I located a sexton with whom I could communicate without much difficulty, and I started to ask him questions. I had scarcely mentioned Hugo, however, when he shook his head.

"_Mademoiselle_," he said, "I trust you do not put too much faith in that man's book! It gave great fame to Our Lady of Paris in a time when she was sadly neglected, but there is little in its pages that could be considered truth."

"Then there is no private chamber near the belfry?" I asked. I felt keenly disappointed, as I'd really hoped that would be what we needed.

"_Non_, no such room exists."

"And what of the Porte Rouge?"

The words were just out of my mouth when it dawned on me what they meant, and I realized how terribly stupid I must have sounded. "Porte Rouge" is French for "red door" -- it was a reference to one of the entrances to the cathedral, nothing more. I had been misled by the context in which the term was used in the book. The sexton just chuckled; he said nothing, apparently sensing that I had already answered my own question.

"Is there nothing you can tell me about any unseen locations? Something perhaps concealed beneath the altar, or near it? Anything at all would be most helpful."

"_Mademoiselle_, the cathedral -- she is a great lady, _non_? She does not tell all of her secrets. It would take centuries to understand them all. But look here," he continued, "if you and your friends are so interested in Monsieur Hugo's story, why not visit the bell tower itself? You will have to climb many stairs, but if you wish to see the gargoyles, I will show you where to go."

I thanked him earnestly and went back to my friends. Once I had related all he had said (while trying very hard not to draw attention to my own gaffe with the red door), it was suggested that we break up into groups -- one to continue searching below, the other to examine the towers. We decided that Tom, Nemo and I would visit Quasimodo's bells, while Mina, Henry and Skinner toured the rest of the main floor. Among other things, they intended to study the various stained-glass windows for possible symbolism in the patterns.

The sexton showed us the door leading to the stairs. "It is quite a climb, _monsieurs et mademoiselle_, but to see the bells, just go as high as you are able. Have a caution, _s'il vous plait_, when visiting the gargoyles!"

He was not exaggerating about the length of the climb, for I have never gone up so many stairs in my life. But at last we came to where the great bells are kept, the rooms where Quasimodo -- in fiction, at least -- had lived and worked his whole life. The bells are massive, and my mind reeled as I contemplated how they had been used to call the faithful to worship for over five hundred years.

We began by inspecting every accessible inch of bell, wall, and floor. If this was Quasimodo's lair, and he was able to help me, then it was plausible that there might be a hidden passage or secret room. But if there is, then it has remained secret and hidden, for none of us were able to find anything, though the sun shining in on us was bright.

Tom pointed out that, in the book, Quasimodo had spent some of his time befriending the stone gargoyles on the outside of the building, so we went out onto the parapets to explore their domain. A queer assortment of creatures they are, too; angels and demons sit alongside each other and study the city in quiet contemplation. Some of them look like monsters, some like animals, some like real people. They are extraordinary products of imagination, and I had to wonder about the people who had made them.

"It's very windy up here," Nemo called. "Elizabeth, be mindful of your footing on the walkways."

This is where my story turns frightening, for he gave this advice to the wrong person. I held tightly to the rails with one hand as I went, and would not venture out very far, nor look down. Tom, however, walked out as far as he could go, peering over the railings at the gargoyles out of our reach. He straightened up and turned, shaking his head at me to show he'd spotted nothing odd.

And then, as though the wind had suddenly shoved him, he was blown back against the rail and neatly flipped over. I had one instant in which to register the look of terrified surprise which crossed his face before he was gone from my sight.

I started to scream, and Nemo came rushing to join me as I ran to the place where he'd been standing. We stared down at another ledge, much too small to walk upon; it may have been nothing more than a stone drain for rainwater. Tom was somehow managing to cling to it, was in fact almost completely curled around it.

"Stay here," Nemo urged me, "and whatever you do, don't let go of the railing. We need Hyde for this."

It seemed ages that he was gone. I kept calling to Tom, but either the wind kept drowning out my voice or he just could not hear me, for he made no answer. Then I heard the wild, piercing screech of a colony of bats, which swarmed around me as though from out of nowhere. These melted almost at once into the figure of Mina, standing at my side.

"They're coming." It was all she had time to say before we heard a great noise from inside the bell towers. Nemo and Skinner came hurrying out to join us, and behind them was the largest creature I had ever seen.

So this was Hyde. He is enormous, apelike, with only traces in his features that remind one of Henry. Everything I knew was telling me to have no fear, yet as I gazed upon him, I could not help but shake.

The four of us watched helplessly as Tom, possibly losing consciousness, seemed to relax his grip on the ledge where he was so precariously perched. Hyde, however, sprang into action at once. Like one of the great daredevil artists one sees at carnivals, he leaped over the rail and began to swing himself progressively lower on the building, using different features of the architecture to support his weight. He reached Tom's lifeless form and snatched him up, then dropped as though a stone to the earth below. We heard the massive 'thud' as he hit the ground, and the shrieks of passers-by reached our ears for the first time.

"Sounds like an audience," said Skinner. "I think we'd best beat a hasty retreat." He shed his clothes and glasses swiftly, pressing them into Nemo's hands; Mina, meanwhile, resumed her bat form and flew off in the direction of the _Nautilus_. Nemo managed to coax my hands off of the railing, which I'd been clutching in terror, and somehow we made our way back down the stairs and out of the cathedral without attracting further notice.

Back aboard the ship, we all assembled in the infirmary, where Hyde had deposited Tom in a bed. He was very white, and not moving much. There was blood matted in his hair, from a wound which Mina was attempting to clean and dress.

"Elizabeth," said a low, rough voice I didn't recognize. Then I realized this was Hyde speaking, and I turned to look him full in the face. "Elizabeth, Henry says you should go and get the herbs with which you tried to revive Mina. They might help Tom."

Relieved to have something to do, I left the room and all but ran to my own quarters to collect the requested items. This time the herbs did succeed, for some of the colour came back to his face almost at once, and he started to cough great gulps of air as he opened his eyes. I wanted to weep with relief; when I'd seen him lying on that ledge, I was certain he was dead.

"Hi," he muttered thickly.

Skinner, who had reclaimed his garments from Nemo and was dressed again, left the room and returned with some of Henry's clothing. I didn't understand this until I turned and saw that Hyde had changed back into Henry, who was discarding the shirt which had torn during the transformation. He thanked Skinner and excused himself; a moment later he returned, fully dressed and looking entirely normal again.

"How's the head, Tom?" he asked, coming over to check Mina's bandages.

"Hurts." He looked up at all of us, his eyes vaguely unfocused. "Who pushed me?"

No one spoke. We all looked at each other, stunned. Finally I said, "No one pushed you, Tom. You just sort of...fell."

"I know _you_ didn't push me," he said. His words were a trifle slurred, as though he were inebriated. "I was looking right at you when I fell. But someone did."

"There was no one there," I insisted.

"Yes -- but -- there was nobody there when you got thrown off the ship," he mumbled. He looked frightfully sleepy and disoriented. Then he leaned over one side of the bed and began to retch horribly. Mina snatched up a nearby basin and held it while poor Tom was sick. His nausea passed before very long, and he lay back down, his eyes still unfocused.

"Good God," said Henry quietly, "have we got another invisible person running around?"

"Hmm," was all Tom said. His eyes were closed again.

"No!" Henry shook him. "You mustn't sleep, Tom. Your head might be more badly wounded than we know. If you fall asleep we may not be able to revive you again."

"So tired," he moaned. "Let me sleep."

Henry looked at us all, his face anxious. "I think perhaps you should go," he said desperately. "At least for a while. I've got to try and determine the extent of his injuries, and the quieter it is in here, the better. Mina, I could use your assistance again, if you're willing."

She nodded. (Later, I found out that after sabotage nearly wrecked the _Nautilus_ in the weeks prior to my father's death, Henry and Mina were put in charge of caring for all of Nemo's crew who sustained harm.) Slowly, and rather unwillingly, Nemo, Skinner and I filed out of the room.

I didn't know what to do with myself, so I came back here to outline the day's events in this diary and start reviewing some of my herbal notes. Possibly there is something in there which may be of use to Henry.

* * *

**31 August 1899**

I write this from the infirmary, where I am sitting watch at Tom's bedside. I found nothing in any of my notes which indicate an herb to be used for head trauma patients, and I can only hope that Henry is right when he expresses belief that Tom will pull through. Nemo, Skinner and I are sharing the duty of sitting with him so that Henry and Mina, who stayed with him all night, can get some rest.

He sleeps right now, and for the first time since I have known him, his face is peaceful -- almost fragile. There is something very childlike about the face, as though he is much younger than twenty. Yet sometimes I think he cannot be even that young, to have lived through so much.

The rest of us have conferred in low whispers about this latest attack on one of our company. It has been suggested that we should simply forget about finding this key. I am torn on this subject; on one hand, I hate to be disobedient to my father's last wish. But at the same time, I heartily long to wash my hands of the whole affair, which has brought us little except trouble. Though I am grateful for the time I have spent with the League, for the things they have taught me and the friendship we have shared, the fact is that had I not asked them to pursue this mystery, neither Tom nor Mina nor I would have ever been endangered by the circumstances of the adventure. Who is next on the unseen attacker's list? How many more times can we successfully evade death? Sooner or later, if these events continue, one of us will surely die.

And it will be all my fault.

* * *

**later**

I had to set my pen and diary aside for a time and give in to a storm of weeping. It was crying as I have never cried, and it seemed to me that the more I wept, the more I felt the need to give release to my tears. I cried for the danger in which I have placed my friends; I cried for the home in England that I have lost. I cried for my father, and for my brother, and even for the mother I have never known. I cried from fear, from guilt, from a bitter heartsickness I cannot identify.

I am quite fortunate in that no one heard me; Tom did not so much as stir all throughout my weeping. By the time Nemo came to relieve me at watch, I was quite composed again, and ready to seek refuge in the library. I found little comfort, however, in the cold words on cold pages, and so have returned to my quarters. Here I wait, and write, and pray.

If Tom does not recover, I shall never forgive myself.


	5. The Night the Lights Went Out

**The Private Diary of Elizabeth Quatermain**  
by Lady Norbert

* * *

**1 September 1899**

Heaven be praised, Tom is better today! He still does not remain awake for long periods of time, but Henry seems most encouraged by his progress. We have all been extremely worried, so this news has been like a long-awaited dawn after a terrible night.

The other members of the League are still strongly in favour of abandoning this quest; however, they have agreed that no action will be taken until Tom is well enough to offer his input. It occurred to me for the first time that there is no real leader of this group, and I asked Nemo about this.

"Your father was our leader," he explained. "It was in that capacity that he was recruited by Moriarty, then known to us as simply M. Since his death, we have decided to have no formal leader. All our decisions are made by mutual agreement or, when necessary, put to a vote. Each of us leads in his or her own fashion, when we are called on to do so, and no one is expected to go farther than he or she will with the League. Sawyer calls it a -- how did he say it? A miniature democracy."

I rather like this idea. I have little doubt, however, that once Tom has recovered sufficiently to cast his vote on the matter, he too will agree that we should leave Paris. The question remaining to me, then, is what will I do once I am no longer part of this company? I can hardly stand to think of it, and yet it is something I must consider swiftly. With any luck, an opportunity will present itself that will take the decision out of my hands. I readily admit that I have no desire to take my leave of the _Nautilus_ or her passengers, who have become so dear to my heart; yet I have no wish to impose upon their goodwill, or upon Nemo's generosity. For my father's sake they have been good to me, and I am deeply grateful, but I cannot ride upon his coattails (as the saying goes) forever.

* * *

**5 September 1899**

Tom continues to improve, and is in more stable condition than previously. I have attempted to purge my guilty conscience by spending a great deal of time in the infirmary; Henry says he may not get up as yet, so I have been trying to keep him amused. Often I read to him, which I should think he would find tedious after a while, but he has offered no complaints. The only thing I will not read to him, of course, is _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_. We have both seen quite enough of that book for some time.

When I am not reading, we talk. He has been telling me more of his youth in Missouri, where he got into a series of many wild adventures with that curiously-named friend of his, Huck. He had me laughing nearly to tears when he recounted an incident in which he convinced several of his boyhood friends that painting his aunt's fence was a great deal of fun, and they actually paid him for the privilege! What a little scoundrel he must have been, and I told him so.

"Yeah, you could say that," he admitted, without a trace of apology or embarrassment. "I gave my poor Aunt Polly absolute fits. She really earned a place in heaven, raising me."

I like the way his expression grows fond when he speaks of his aunt, or of Huck. His eyes are extremely green, and convey great emotion.

* * *

**6 September 1899**

Today was my twentieth birthday. My friends have not been made aware of the fact, and we have all been too preoccupied with Tom's recovery to be inclined toward anything celebratory, so I had no expectation of their taking any notice. I don't mind, truly. The only reason I note it at all is that my birthday marks the anniversary of the last time I ever saw Father; I visited him in Kenya for the month of my eighteenth. Had I known then that it would be our last time together...but I suppose there is no point in dwelling on what might have been.

Today Tom asked me to tell him something of my history, since (he says) he has been doing most of the talking. My life has not been precisely interesting, so for lack of any better ideas I told him how I came to be educated in the application of herbs for various purposes, under the tutelage of my mother's late sister Adelaide.

"My mother died at my birth," I explained, "so until her death, my aunt was put in charge of my upbringing. I only began to live at Solomon Manor after she died; before that I lived with Aunt Adelaide at her home in Devonshire. She had a massive garden, and from the time I was very small, she began to teach me how to make use of the plants which grew there. I remember the first thing I learned was about the use of aloe. I was in the flower garden, roaming, and I was stung by a bee. Aunt Adelaide seized the plant and tore off a piece; the juice is inside the leaves, you know, and she rubbed it on my wound. After that I just wanted to learn everything she would teach me."

Later, after luncheon, I read to him from _Leaves of Grass_, the poetry book I'd found in the library the day before his unfortunate incident. I was reading quite steadily until I reached that poem I liked so much. For some reason, I found it terribly difficult to read that one to Tom, something which did not fail to attract his attention. I think I covered well, saying that I needed a drink of water, and after so refreshing myself I concluded the poem. The last line -- "Little you know the subtle electric fire which for your sake is playing within me" -- gave me a little trouble, but he did not comment on it. After that we abandoned poetry for more talk.

Later, Mina came by to check on him. I was a bit rattled to notice that his eyes were on her every second she was in the room. He has not begun to "get over" her at all, but rather has been keeping his feelings under a tighter rein. It troubles me to realize that, should Mina decide to reorient her interest in his direction, she could still have Tom. Worse, I believe she realizes it herself, and I suspect her of enjoying the knowledge. But then, I suppose any woman would enjoy the prospect of a choice between lovers. I wish she would make a definitive selection, however; I am fond of them both, and the longer she refrains from voicing a decision between them, the greater the pain will be for the one she does not choose.

* * *

**7 September 1899**

I hadn't meant to do it, but during this morning's discourse, the conversation got around to birthdays, and I ended up admitting to Tom that yesterday was mine. He must have told Henry when I left the room so the good doctor could examine his patient, for tonight's evening meal was ended with a delectable, exotic cake garnished with fruits and bearing my name. All my friends wished me well, and it was difficult not to shed tears at their kindness, especially knowing that my time in their gracious company will soon draw to a close.

The better present, however, was that after the examination for which I left the infirmary, Henry pronounced Tom recovered from his injuries. "There may still be some pain now and then," he advised, "but on the whole you have mended quite well." The look of friendly gratitude with which Tom favoured Henry told me that whatever antipathy he had borne over Mina's potential decision has faded, and for Tom's sake I am very pleased. I know from experience how difficult it is to feel such resentment toward one who is considered a friend.

However, given what I observed yesterday during Mina's visit, I wonder how long the cordiality will remain in place after she ultimately makes her choice -- especially if she does choose Henry. In perfect honesty, I believe she _should_ choose Henry. Tom is too young, too...there is a word I want to describe what I am thinking, and I cannot call it to mind. It is just my private opinion that Tom is not right for Mina. Or should I say instead that Mina is not right for Tom?

As I expected he would be, Tom is in agreement with the others about ceasing our efforts to search for Father's mysterious key. Apparently, prior to their coming to find me, the League had planned on making something of a world tour, and they wish to resume that plan; however, there is the matter of what I am to do now. Though I have not said anything about it to any of them as yet, I expect I will return to England in the near future. Perhaps I should just move ashore here in Paris and make my way there on my own.

* * *

**later**

How really very curious!

I was just unpinning my hair when I heard a sound in the hallway. A letter suddenly slid under my door. I opened the door and looked out at once, but saw no one. Making matters even more surprising, the note appears to be from Tom.

_Elizabeth, _

_Let's not give up just yet! I think if we give it one more try, we can solve this mystery. Come to the cathedral tonight; we can search while no one is there. _

_Tom _

Now, I really am perplexed. This is completely contradictory of what he said tonight. More than that, why would we go by ourselves, rather than with the entire League?

Something very funny is going on here.

* * *

**8 September 1899**

Funny is hardly the word for what was going on last night.

I decided to go and find Tom, to see whether it wouldn't be wise to take more people along with us. I dressed again, though I left my hair down -- putting up can be so tedious -- and left my room. Tom's chambers are two corridors away from mine, so I headed in that direction.

Then everything went black. I mean that literally; the lights went out all over the ship. I could hear people shouting, and after my previous experiences with trouble on this ship, I could think of only one thing: to get back in my quarters and lock the door.

I pushed the door shut, and it collided with something. I heard a very sharp "Ow!" of pain, in a voice I recognized, and I reopened the door and pulled Skinner inside. "Are you all right?"

"Ordinarily I'd say watch where you're shoving that door, but under the circumstances I'll make an exception," he muttered. I rummaged around in the darkness, trying to find a candle and match. "What happened to the lights?"

"I have no idea. I thought the solar panels meant that we had light all the time."

"That's what they're supposed to mean, yeah. Makes no sense."

I managed to light a candle and put it on my dressing table. "Not much, but it's the best we have right now, I'm afraid," I said. "What were you doing outside my door, anyway?"

"Call it a thief's instinct, but when the power went out, I thought I'd better make sure nobody was trying to drown you again."

There was a knock at the door. "Elizabeth?"

I opened the door to admit Mina this time. "Can you see in the dark?" I couldn't help asking.

"Better than most, yes. Actually, darkness is the best time to transform into bats, because of their excellent senses, but I was afraid I might increase the crew's panic." She moved farther into the room and caught sight of Skinner. "Have I come at a bad time?" she asked slyly.

"Don't be silly, Mina," he returned. "You know there'll never be anyone for me but you."

"How comforting."

"Listen, I'm glad you're both here," I interrupted. "I received a very strange message from Tom just before the lights went out, and I don't know what's happening." I read them the brief note, to which they responded with silence.

"I don't believe that was Tom who sent it," said Mina finally.

"I don't either," said Skinner. "Doesn't sound at all like him."

At that moment, the power came back on, so I blew out the candle. "I suggest," said Mina, "that we adjourn to the main conference chamber and discuss these peculiar events with the others. Something very strange is afoot here."

"There is treachery at work!" cried Nemo angrily, when the League and I had assembled.

It seems that someone (and we may well assume that it our invisible tormentor at work once more) has damaged the solar panels, which not only caused the temporary blackout but, for a time at least, will prevent them from collecting and storing any further energy for our use. An emergency backup system of some kind -- I confess I did not understand everything Nemo was telling us -- has gone into operation, which is what allowed the lights to resume working. But now, because of the damage to the panels, we must delay our departure from Paris.

When he finished breaking this news to us, I gave them mine. Everyone listened as I read the note, then turned to look at Tom. He appeared completely bewildered.

"I didn't write that," he said. "I swear to you, I didn't do it." He took the paper from me, examined it carefully, and shook his head. "The handwriting isn't anything like mine. Look." Borrowing a pen from Nemo, he copied the same words at the bottom of the page. The styles of script are extremely dissimilar. There was silence.

"It was a trap," I said hoarsely.

"So it would seem," said Nemo. He looked grave. "And the timing of the power failure so soon afterward is disturbing. I believe the one who sent the message was attempting to lure you from your quarters. It is fortunate that they were unsuccessful in their plans."

I nodded. I wanted to speak, but my throat was too tight.

"I believe," said Henry, "more than ever that we are right to abandon the quest for this key. The events of tonight have me wondering whether the letter you received was even from Allan."

"No, I know his writing," I insisted, finding my voice. "It was from him."

"A clever forgery, maybe," suggested Skinner.

"But -- none of this makes any sense," I said. "What would be the use in luring me to Paris?"

No one seemed to have an answer for that. Finally, Nemo said, "Perhaps you should answer the note."

"What?"

"Perhaps you should go to the cathedral. Draw out the one who is behind it all."

"And perhaps she could get herself killed in the process," said Mina sharply.

"I do not mean to say she should go alone," Nemo continued. "But we have a way to make it look as though she is alone -- do we not, Mr. Skinner?"

Skinner started, and looked up. "Oh...right," he said slowly.

"A good idea, with one problem." This from Tom. "If the person who's been pulling all this is invisible, how do we know they're not right here listening to the plan?"

We all looked around, suddenly unnerved by the thought of the spy right in our midst. "Best to forget about it for now," said Henry.

Only I haven't forgotten about it, even today. Perhaps Nemo is right; perhaps the only way this is ever going to end is if I go to the cathedral and find the person responsible for all these attacks on my friends and the ship.

I have the wretched pistol they've insisted I carry. Father did teach me to shoot, and I haven't forgotten (though I admit I've tried). I can, I think, protect myself at least long enough to escape.

The only hindrance I see to my intentions to go alone is the fact that I never _am_ alone. After the events of last night, the League has resumed its insistence that I be accompanied at all times when I am not in my own quarters -- and Nemo has posted members of his crew to stand guard outside the room when I am in here.

I think my best chance is to follow Nemo's advice to the letter, and ask Skinner to accompany me. Of them all, he is least likely to be injured if something goes amiss, since he won't exactly be spotted by "the enemy." If I ask him here, in my own room, we stand little chance of being overheard. I am sure he will consent to it. We will go tonight.


	6. Unmasking the Mystery

**The Private Diary of Elizabeth Quatermain**  
by Lady Norbert

* * *

**14 September 1899**

This is the first day I have felt well enough to write in my diary since the adventures of several nights ago. Mina was kind enough to bring it to me here in the infirmary, where I have been resting.

That I am alive at all surprises me, and I owe it entirely to the valour of the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. But perhaps I should begin this story where I last stopped writing it.

Skinner, as I supposed, agreed to accompany me to the cathedral on the night of the ninth. The streets of any city at night are not the safest place for a woman alone, but I tried not to be nervous; after all, I was not really alone.

We reached the cathedral and, for reasons beyond my own comprehension, decided to enter by means of the Porte Rouge. I suppose I was just being absurd, remembering my earlier error, but it is a door as good as any other. In any case, we were surprised to find that it was unlocked. Surely a cathedral so filled with valuable treasures would be locked after nightfall! This more than anything else cemented my belief that it had all been a trap, and that I was close to identifying the one who was behind all the trouble.

I entered as quietly as possible, certain Skinner was behind me. A faint trickle of moonlight was sparkling through one of the massive rose windows, but otherwise, the cathedral was dark and still. I had gone perhaps five paces when something hard and heavy struck me from behind, and I knew nothing more.

How long I was unconscious, I do not know. When I regained my senses, I was no longer within the sanctity of Notre Dame, but sprawled in a most undignified manner across the filthy floor of what seemed to be a warehouse. I could hear the low groans of a tugboat's whistle and presumed myself near the water. My head ached like thunder, and when I reached up to touch my hair, I felt my own sticky blood.

Then came the voice, so terrible and menacing; its like I have never heard in my life.

"Elizabeth...Quatermain."

I felt almost drunk with the pain and confusion. I forced myself up on my knees and looked around, but could see no one. "You have the advantage of me, sir," I said. "You seem to know who I am, but I have yet to learn your name."

There was a snort of derisive laughter from one of the shadows, and then a man -- a perfectly ordinary-looking man -- moved into one of the few patches of light which covered the floor. Our surroundings were too dim for me to view him properly, but as far as I could see, he was tall and thin, with shaggy dark hair and an unpleasant leer on his face.

"I suppose," he said in the same cold, hard voice, "you are entitled to know a few things before you die. Very well. My name is Sebastian de Gaulle." He had a strong French accent, but his English was perfectly clear.

"Monsieur de Gaulle, why am I here? What is the meaning of all of this?"

"You are here because I made a vow, years ago, and I mean to conclude the last portion of that vow." He made it sound so obvious, like it was something I should have divined long since. "Moriarty fulfilled part of it for me already."

"Moriarty?"

"My...associate, shall we say? Once, long ago, I helped the so-called Napoleon of crime escape his own death. Everyone believed him dead, but it was I to whom he owed his life. I put a simple price upon my assistance: I wanted his assurance that Allan Quatermain and his daughter would die. The bargain is half-fulfilled."

"You are well informed, _monsieur_," I said, getting unsteadily to my feet. "Few people are aware of my father's passing."

"You are a stupid child. The confederacy of thieves has spies on every continent. I have known of Quatermain's death from the moment his body was returned to Kenya. I was a little disappointed, to tell you the truth, for I hoped there would be nothing left to bury."

The room was starting to rotate slightly. A wooden post stood to my left, and I moved to lean against it for support. "I am afraid, _monsieur_, that I still do not understand why I am here."

"You are here in Paris to find a key, _non_?" He laughed bitterly. "I wrote that letter. I knew that as soon as you found out your father was dead, you would come running. I admit, I did not foresee the League accompanying you, but no matter. I will deal with them; I have already begun."

"It was you," I said. The room was spinning harder; I suppose I had lost quite a bit of blood. "You were the one...?"

"Well, not me directly," he admitted. "One of Moriarty's henchmen escaped from Mongolia with a dose of that invisibility serum. He hid aboard the _Nautilus_ and, once you had moved onto the ship, he set into motion a series of events designed to ultimately conclude the bargain we had struck."

"The invisible assassin," I said thickly.

"Quite. First he tried throwing you overboard, as you recall. That would have solved the problem so neatly -- everyone would assume you had fallen into the water. He didn't count on the American's devotion to Quatermain. Then, when the vampire promised to teach you chemistry, he planted the explosive powder in the cathedral. We were so sure she would have you assisting her when she analysed it; I didn't expect it to kill _her_, but _you_ would certainly have died had you been in the room. I must say, you did inherit the Quatermain luck."

"And at Notre Dame? Was he the one who pushed...?"

"Of course. The fool American was put in charge of protecting you; it seemed logical to get him out of the way. Not as good as pushing you over the railing, I admit, but one must take advantage of the opportunities presented to oneself. When he heard the League intended to give up on the quest, he tried to lure you here and damaged the solar panels so that you could not escape."

"Yes...it makes so much sense," I muttered insensibly. "But I still don't understand why you wanted my father dead. Or me."

"Simple," he replied, and he came closer, letting me see more clearly the cruel expression twisted on his face. "I hated my father."

I stared at him, not understanding. "Who was your father?"

"Allan Quatermain."

* * *

**later**

I could not continue writing just then, for my head ached too fiercely as I recalled the events. Henry heard me groaning, and he came and gave me something to make me fall asleep. The pain has eased, and I can continue my story.

"That's not possible," I said. The shock had forced me out of some of my incoherence. "My father had only two children."

"He had only two _wives_. He took a number of lovers in his life, including one Antoinette de Gaulle -- my mother. He broke her heart when he left her, and she died when she had me. Not unlike your own mother, _oui_, my sister?" He spat the word "sister" at me like it was some sort of curse. "The bastard didn't even give me his name. You, though, you have legitimacy. Mademoiselle Quatermain, daughter of the great white hunter, the pride of England's heart." He laughed unpleasantly. "Mademoiselle Quatermain, who will die tonight like a common whore in the street."

I heard movement around me then, and for a moment I thought it was Skinner. My heart failed me, however, as additional black shapes moved into view, and I realized we were far from alone.

"I owe favours to a few of my friends," said de Gaulle carelessly, "and before you die, _ma petit_, you will help me settle the score, _non_?"

I understood then exactly what he intended to have done to me, and I will not pretend now that I was not shaking with terror and a violent nausea. I reached for my boot, where I had concealed the small pistol which was my only protection, but it was gone. It must have been taken from me when I was brought to this place.

An unfamiliar voice said something in French, and de Gaulle replied, "_Oui, oui_, a bargain is a bargain." To me he said, "My invisible associate has been waiting these many weeks for payment for his services. Have you thought you were alone in the darkness of your room, little sister? Did you believe you were safe?" He laughed. I felt a hand close on my arm. Hot breath swept across my cheek, and I was very nearly sick. "She is yours, _mon ami_, yours for the first."

I was close to fainting, but had I done so, his task would have been far easier. Perhaps it was this knowledge which kept me upright. As de Gaulle watched, I was drawn closer to the invisible one who gripped my arm, and I could feel that which I could not see. Cold beads of sweat slipped down my back as I shook with fear of what was to come.

Suddenly there was a rush of air, or so it seemed, as my invisible attacker lost his hold on my arm. There came the sound of two bodies falling to the floor in front of me, and I heard Skinner shout, "Run, Bess!"

"Shoot him!" de Gaulle bellowed. How he expected any of his men to accomplish this, I cannot imagine, nor did I have the time to try just then. I attempted to obey his order to run, but I could see some of the other men closing in around me. Even if I had known where the exit was, I could not get away from them to find it.

All at once, the air came alive with the screeching and fluttering of bats. A heavy smashing sound from one end of the room sent clouds of dust rising to the ceiling, and through the haze a massive figure was just visible. Over everything, I heard a familiar voice.

"As we say in America, the cavalry has arrived!"

The gunshots sang through the air as de Gaulle's men tried to defend themselves from the onslaught of bats, Indian soldiers, and Hyde. I was registering everything only very dimly; I was relieved that my friends were with me, but my concern was for the one I could not see.

Tom, his modified Winchester rifle smoking in his hands, fought his way to my side. "Where is Skinner?" he yelled above the din.

"I'm here!" shouted Skinner's voice, some eight feet away. The dirt and dust from the floor had coated the two invisible men in a thin layer of grime, making them look like a pair of wrestling shadows, but they were so similar in height and build that it was nearly impossible to tell which was which amid all the confusion.

"Shoot the bastard, Tom!"

"I don't know which one is you!" Tom sounded utterly perplexed.

"Then shoot us both, you fool!"

I could see Tom's hands trembling as he raised his rifle. He took careful aim and fired once, then twice. The struggling bodies on the floor lay still.

I heard myself screaming. Tom was very white. He dropped his rifle and ran to the two figures in the dust. One was wheezing; the other moved not at all. Around me I could hear shouts as Nemo's men drove their swords home and Mina fed. Hyde was knocking de Gaulle's men aside left and right as he worked his way to the centre of the room. I sank back down to my knees, my head ringing.

Tom was still crouched beside the bodies on the floor, apparently speaking; I could not hear him. My eyes were losing their focus. A figure was moving just beyond Tom, growing steadily nearer. I saw a glint of metal as de Gaulle raised a gun.

Then my vision cleared, and I was looking not at a dark warehouse but a sunny African plain. My father was teaching me to shoot a rifle.

"Now," he said in his thick Scotch accent, "line up your shot." He took my hands and closed the fingers around the gun. It felt warm and solid. "Get the target in your sight...don't shoot until you feel it. Take your time; you have all the time in the world."

There were perhaps a dozen things wrong with what I was seeing and doing and feeling, but I found I didn't care much. All I cared about was making this shot to Father's satisfaction. I closed one eye, sighting along the barrel of the gun, aligning my shot with the target he had pinned to a tree some forty yards away.

And I fired.

"Good shot, my girl!"

Africa vanished, as did my father. I was on my knees in the warehouse, Tom's Winchester clutched tight in my grip. Across the room, de Gaulle lay still and silent. I dropped the firearm and knew nothing more.

* * *

**later still**

There. I have finished telling this diary my version of the events. Henry said it would be good to get it out of my system, and I must admit, it does feel somewhat better. Not entirely, but it is a start.

No one would tell me anything for the first few days after I awoke on the _Nautilus_. The pain in my head has been terrible, and in those first days Henry kept slipping me something to make me sleep. I could not keep food in my stomach for a time, because whenever I recalled the events at the warehouse I would become violently ill. Gradually, this subsided.

Once the worst of my nausea had passed, Henry permitted me to have visitors. This had a better effect than a dozen restorative draughts, for my first visitor was the very one for whom I had worried so. I had just awakened from a brief nap when he came in.

"Skinner?"

"In the flesh!"

I held out a hand, which he took in his own. He was not wearing his black leather gloves, so it looked like mine was curled around nothing at all. "How are you, Bessie?" he asked seriously.

"I feel ten times better now that I know you're alive." This was the absolute truth. I owe my life to all of my friends, but it was Skinner who saved my virtue, and if he had not survived the battle I do not know what I would have done. "Did...did Tom shoot you?" I whispered.

"Nah. He did just what I thought he'd do -- he realized which one was the real me, and shot the other one. Nice clean shots, too. But he thought he hit me, scared the tar out of him."

"And me."

* * *

**16 September 1899**

Henry says I am doing well. My head still aches quite often, but he thinks I will suffer no lasting harm from the ordeal.

Last night after the evening meal, all five of my friends gathered here in the infirmary and, at last, I was able to tell them my version of the events of that night. The only part they have a hard time understanding is the part when I was shooting in Africa with my father. I cannot blame them, as _I_ have no understanding of what happened then either. According to Tom, I picked up his rifle and very calmly put a bullet in de Gaulle's head. It is all quite mysterious, and rather sickening. I have taken a man's life -- the life of my own half-brother -- and if my senses are to be at all believed, it was my father who helped me to do it.

To change the subject, which I think they sensed was troubling me, I was then told how Skinner had notified Nemo of what I was plotting. Nemo then tracked Skinner's movements through the city; when I was attacked and taken from the cathedral, Skinner followed my abductor to the warehouse. Once the others had a definite location, they hastened to join us and put an end to all the madness. I am afraid that my head is still bothering me sufficiently that I am not comprehending all of the details, but it is enough for me to know that they did what they have done, without understanding exactly how.

I think I fell into a light doze toward the end of this discussion, for the conversation went on without me. I could hear what they were saying, but could not muster the energy or inclination to take part in the talk. Mina inquired as to what de Gaulle's motives had been, and Skinner related to them all his bizarre tale -- how he claimed to be my father's son, how he had aided Moriarty in exchange for our deaths, and what he intended to have done with me. It seems to be the general feeling among the League that de Gaulle was either insane or lying, or both; none of them believes that he really was my brother.

I find that slightly comforting, though it does not change the fact that I killed a man in cold blood.

* * *

**18 September 1899**

Tom has been to sit with me every day as I recover. As I did when he was the one suffering from a head injury, he reads to me or talks with me to keep me amused. I like to listen to him read; he has a pleasant voice. When we talk, it is of the past and of the future, but never of the present. He tells me more of his America, and I tell him more of my England, and I think the truth is that to a small degree, we are each homesick.

Only once have we touched on the events of late. He brought me a copy of _Le Monde_, the Paris newspaper, from the day after the incident. The police discovered a number of bodies in a warehouse near the river; all of the dead men are known criminals, and the officials seem to be of the opinion that it was a fight to the death among rival thugs. Among the dead was one Sebastian de Gaulle, believed to be the perpetrator in a series of murders near the Rue Morgue.

"He wasn't your brother, Elizabeth," said Tom. "You know that, don't you?"

"I don't know anything," I replied very quietly, "except that I killed a man."

"You saved me in the process. And you saved Skinner. I know you'd give your life for Skinner, same as he'd give his life for you."

I looked at him then, surprised. I am of course aware that this is true, but I didn't realize that it was so apparent to anyone else. Tom looked extremely serious, and a little troubled, which I do not understand.

"Skinner would give his life for any of you," I reminded him. "And so would I, if it came to that."

He smiled briefly. "All right. Just...don't hate yourself for this, Elizabeth. You did what you had to do." He paused, and then he added, "You did what your father would have done."

I held out my hand, and he took it. "Thank you, Tom."

I believe I fell asleep soon after that, but when I woke, he was still sitting there with me.

* * *

**19 September 1899**

Mina tells me the solar panels have been repaired, and that Henry now says I am well enough to travel, which means that the _Nautilus_ will leave Paris upon the morrow. The destination is not yet decided.

* * *

**later**

I am inexpressibly happy at this moment!

Tom was just reading to me from Chaucer's _Canterbury Tales_ (which, I must note in passing, he finds quite amusing) when the other members of the League came into the infirmary.

"Egypt," Nemo said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"We are making the decision about our next port of call," he explained, "and I suggest Egypt. It is a fair land, rich in history and culture."

"And pyramids," said Skinner.

I listened, only half paying attention, as they debated the merits of Egypt over those of America, which Tom had apparently suggested last night. It went on for several minutes, but it was finally agreed that, as we are presently closer to Egypt than to the Americas, the crew will sail first for Cairo.

Henry came over to check the bandages on my head.

"What do you think, Elizabeth?" he asked casually, parting my hair in different places to examine the bruised scalp.

"About what?"

There was a silence.

"About Egypt?" Henry prompted.

"Er...me?"

"As I believe I have told you before," said Nemo, smiling slightly, "no important decisions are made until each member of the League has had a say in the matter. We have all made our views heard. Does Egypt agree with you?"

I could not believe my ears, and looked from one face to the next in complete astonishment. "You mean...you want me to stay on the ship?" I could hear my voice crack with emotion, and felt terribly silly.

"Well, what did you think? That we'd toss you overboard?" Skinner was grinning openly.

"In a manner of speaking, yes," I admitted. "I've been trying to decide what to do once I return to England, because I didn't expect to be remaining with all of you."

"If you wish to return to England, we can accommodate you," Nemo began.

"No!" I exclaimed, and they all laughed. "I mean," I continued hastily, "I would be honoured to remain on the _Nautilus_. I just didn't want to overstay my welcome."

They all looked at each other. Mina looked like she wanted to laugh again; if the gentlemen had a similar inclination, they did a better job of concealing it.

"Tell you what, Bessie," said Skinner at length. "If you overstay your welcome, we'll let you know. All right?"

I nodded. There was a great thick lump in my throat, and I swallowed hard to dislodge it.

"So -- all for Egypt?" asked Nemo.

"Aye!" replied five voices.

* * *

_Here ends the first stage of Miss Elizabeth Quatermain's adventures with the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. __Look for further intrigue and danger in volume two, "The Egypt Chronicle._ "


	7. The Private Diary FAQ

**The Private Diary of Elizabeth Quatermain: Author's Notes and Acknowledgements**

There are a few things which take place or are mentioned throughout this story which are not necessarily clear to all readers, as evidenced by a number of questions I've received from some. So this final "chapter" is meant to clear up some of those details. (Do not read this unless you've read the whole story, or things are going to be spoiled for you.) If there's something you're really wondering about and you don't see an answer here, drop me a comment or contact me in some other way and ask; I'll update this chapter to include the appropriate response.

* * *

**I. About Elizabeth Quatermain**

_According to canon, Allan Quatermain didn't have a daughter. You know that, right?_

Yes. Believe me, I looked into it before I made my story available for public viewing. But I liked the idea too much to abandon it just because he never mentioned a daughter in the books.

_Why don't we know what Elizabeth looks like?_

There are two reasons, one personal and one logical. The personal reason was that I was determined Elizabeth would not become a "Mary Sue" by any stretch of the imagination, and so rather than give you any ideas that she's the most ravishing creature this side of Mina Harker, I decided it would be better to allow you to decide for yourself how she appears. The logical reason, of course, is that the entire story is comprised of Elizabeth's entries in her own diary, and I couldn't think of any circumstances which would have this proper Victorian girl sitting down and telling her diary what she sees in the mirror each day.

_Is Elizabeth based on anyone real?_

She has several qualities belonging to assorted people I know in real life. Actually, more than one person has described her as me in a corset. This is not entirely inaccurate.

_Is there any significance to Elizabeth's birthday?_

The only reason Elizabeth's birthday got mentioned at all was to bring up a brief reminiscence of her father and their last time spent together, which was when he taught her to shoot. As to the choice of date, I decided that if she's going to hang out in my head this much, we might at least have some things in common. So I gave her my birthday; I'm not using it much just now.

_Why does Skinner call her Bess? Does she really hate it that much?_

Skinner calls her Bess because Skinner is completely incorrigible and loves to be as informal as possible. She's not crazy about the nickname, but she recognizes that it's a sign of his fondness for her, so she tolerates it in good humor. Or humour. The pattern seems to be that she is "Bess" under ordinary circumstances, and "Bessie" when he's feeling particularly affectionate, silly, or parental.

* * *

**II. About this whole sordid plot**

_What was the deal with the letter? _

The letter was a forgery. Sebastian de Gaulle arranged for Elizabeth to receive the message, which she believed was from her father, with the intent of luring her to Paris and to her death. Originally, I had intended for there to have been a real letter from Allan to his daughter, intercepted by de Gaulle and replaced with the forgery, but it never made its way into the story.

_So __**was**__ de Gaulle her half-brother?_

That would be telling! But I can tell you that the unanswered question is going to fester in her mind for a very long time. And she might never completely get over the guilt she feels for killing him.

_This business with the Porte Rouge and Elizabeth's mistake. Was there a point to that?_

That was me laughing at myself. I had been entirely too pleased with the key message she received in her first diary entry. When the time came for them to start looking for the actual key, however, my ego took a nosedive because I realized I never got around to reading _Hunchback_. So I spent a short amount of time searching the text for 'secret' places within the cathedral. The two I mentioned, Frollo's private room and the Porte Rouge, seemed like good ideas at the time. I reasoned that Frollo's room wasn't real, but when I went online to learn more about the Porte Rouge, I found out that all it refers to is the red door. By that point, I had already written the story up to Elizabeth's conversation with the sexton; I considered going back and removing all the references to the Porte Rouge, but I decided that having my heroine screw up that way would be a nice bit of comic relief, so I kept it. If nothing else, I hope it will remind me in future stories not to be overly impressed by my own cleverness.

_What's this reference to Tom solving a murder mystery?_

That is the plotline of _Tom Sawyer, Detective,_ the last of Twain's novels about his most famous character. Seventeen-year-old Tom solves a baffling murder; the story is told from the point of view of Huck Finn. Interestingly, the book takes place in 1897, two years prior to the LXG movie -- which means that the film's Agent Sawyer is approximately nineteen years old. I made him twenty in my story just for the sake of argument.

_What the heck happened in the warehouse with the flashback to Africa?_

I'm not too sure. Elizabeth hates guns, hates violence. Her father taught her to shoot, but she didn't really want to learn; she only went along with it to please him. In the warehouse, she recognized on some level that if she didn't kill de Gaulle, he was going to kill Tom and Skinner, if Skinner wasn't already dead. As near as I can figure it out, her subconscious took over and put her into a situation where she could fire the gun without realizing she was shooting at a person. Either that, or the ghost of Allan Quatermain came back to save his daughter. Pick the theory you like best. Elizabeth herself is not terribly clear on what happened, and she spends most of her time trying not to think about it.

_Props to you on remembering to illustrate the Mina/Henry/Tom love triangle. Now please explain this possible love triangle you've established with Elizabeth/Tom/Skinner._

I'll explain this much. When I started writing this story, I was perfectly well convinced that Elizabeth would eventually fall in love with Tom and vice versa; that was how I planned to end it. What I did not count on was that Elizabeth would develop this bond she seems to share with Skinner. She is of the mind that the relationship between them is of the platonic, brother-sister variety of friendship; the trouble with this is that it hasn't dawned on her that maybe he doesn't agree. Meanwhile, yes, she is attracted to Tom, and finds his continued interest in Mina to be problematic, but at this stage in the game she thinks that her only concern is that he doesn't get hurt again. In other words, she hasn't completely figured out that she's attracted to him. And nobody is entirely sure what Tom is thinking about any of this, but he seems to be a bit more tuned in to the Elizabeth/Skinner relationship than a neutral observer would be, so his interest might not be solely focused on Mina.

* * *

**III. About me, sequels, and other random nonsense**

_Are you really planning to write more stories with this character?_

Edited answer, March 2009 (since by now it's pretty obvious that yes, I did): At the time that I initially wrote this FAQ, the answer was "Sure looks that way." Literally, I felt more like a conduit for someone else telling a story than the story's actual writer. Very little went the way I expected it to go. Looking back five years after I first began, all I can do is shake my head and wonder what happened.

_Your writing style is very period. How did you do that?_

I read a lot. And I can be pretty good at faking what I don't know. Also, I set the spellchecker on my word processor to use the British spellings of words (colour, favour) instead of the American (color, favor). For the record, I am an American, though a blatant Anglophile.

* * *

**IV. Credits, thanks, and all that jazz**

The basic premise of this story is based upon the film _The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen_, released in theaters July 11, 2003. The film in turn was based on the series of graphic novels of the same name by Alan Moore. In a general sort of way, everything you read in this story is the property of the much more clever people who were involved in those two projects, and I made absolutely no financial profit from the use thereof. The only thing I can lay legitimate claim to is the personality of Elizabeth -- and she says that she is perfectly capable of owning that herself, thank you very much. Oh, I also made up de Gaulle, but I don't like him well enough to say I own him. Besides, he's dead.

The characters of Dr. Henry Jekyll and Mr. Edward Hyde are from _Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_ by Robert Louis Stevenson.

The character of Wilhelmina Harker is from _Dracula_ by Bram Stoker.

The character of Allan Quatermain is from _King Solomon's Mines, Allan Quatermain, The Ivory Child,_ and other stories and novels by H. Rider Haggard.

The character of Captain Nemo and his amazing _Nautilus_ are from _20,000 Leagues Under the Sea_ by Jules Verne.

The character of Rodney Skinner is patterned, loosely, after the original Invisible Man, from the book _The Invisible Man_ by H. G. Wells. Personally, I prefer Skinner's company, but that's just me.

The character of Tom "Special Agent" Sawyer is from _The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Tom Sawyer Abroad, _and _Tom Sawyer, Detective, _all by Mark Twain.

The character of Moriarty (mentioned in this story, but never seen) is from the Sherlock Holmes stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Additionally, _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_, originally published in French as _Notre-Dame de Paris_, is by Victor Hugo. _Leaves of Grass_ is a poetry volume by Walt Whitman. _The Canterbury Tales_ is a medieval collection of tales by Geoffrey Chaucer.

In summation, if you want to read literature that's a lot better than my fan fiction, you have lots of options.

Thanks go out to everyone who read this story. Special thanks are in order to three of my readers. Two are known on as EtCetera Kit and Emerald3. Etcy gets her props for pointing out a few factual errors and the like in early versions of the first chapter, thus helping me to make a better story; while Emmy needs to be thanked for her eloquent and truly delightful reviews. They are, incidentally, excellent writers themselves, so if you'd like to read more LXG fan fiction, please stop by their profiles and have a look. The third reader to whom I owe the most thanks is called "darkmark90," and it was after reading email from this gentleman that I realized I'd given Elizabeth entirely too much advance knowledge of something there was really no way she could have known. So thank you very much for helping me correct my error.

Special thanks are also extended to two real-life friends -- Christianne, who was the first fan of the story, and Regina, who was the only person who caught a rather glaring error I made with regard to Paris's proximity to the coast.

Next stop, Egypt. Cheers, my freaky darlings!

_Lady Norbert_


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